The Trees of Neldoreth
by Lady Elleth
Summary: The kinslaying of Doriath from an unusual point of view. Rating for violence and character death.


Disclaimer: The setting, Fëanor and his sons belong to Tolkien. The lovers belong to me, and the silver-haired youth is one of my beta´s original characters. He and the description of him is used with permission. 

Author´s Notes: Thanks to my beta-reader, the fabulous TreeHugger, for reading this story through and allowing me to use one of the most-beloved OCs of her universe, Tanglinna. Those of you who know her stories know him, and those of you who do not, should run over to Tree´s corner of ff.net and read her stories.  

~

The dawn broke. 

Morning sunlight sent its golden rays through the dew-glistening branches of the trees.

The birds sang quietly, and elven voices were heard not far off, chanting a lamentation for the fallen. 

Otherwise, the wood was silent, save for the voices only few could hear, the voices of nature, of the wilderness, of the forest. The forest was whispering. 

And unlike those firstborn, who were about to depart, not at home here and not listening to its many voices, the forest listened to them, watching.

Centuries old, the beeches of Neldoreth had seen everything. Many of them had been there, though still young saplings, when the voices of nightingales filled the empty wood. 

They had grown in the long years, and had perceived many a hunt going on beneath their boughs. 

They had seen mortals who were now long since dead, and they had seen the fairest maiden that had walked the earth, giving up her immortality for a brief time of love and bliss. 

They had seen how the bearded creatures had come, slaying the Quendi, and then they had seen silence, until the halls beneath the ground were filled with life once more.

Now they were empty again, for again the folk living here had been slain. 

Now was the aftermath of the night and the trees discussed the events quietly.

"Were they lovers?" One tree whispered, its roots stained red by the blood that had pooled into the earth. 

Some violet flowers nodded, swaying in the breeze. 

"They were. Did you not see it?"

"I saw it, before they died," another tree answered quietly. 

_~_

The gleaming torchlight followed them, drawing ever nearer, while their steps slowed and stumbled. They weakened. He was wounded already, and she was exhausted.

_~_

"Young. So young to return to the earth of which they are made. Too fragile to live, perhaps," another said, thoughtfully.

"No, they were not young, and not fragile. Few lives are, save ours. One tree can bring down another when it falls, true, but we never do it on purpose. But they have swords to bring down their own kin, and they have arrows. Not fragile. Do you not remember how the other one made his final stand? Not fragile.

_~_

The two elves stopped in the clearing. They had been here before, the realisation hit them like a shock. In their panic they had run in a circle, heading back to the gates of Menegroth.

The torchlight behind them had vanished, but another elf approached them already, blade drawn, and a smile mingled with despair on his face. 

The fleeing, though exhausted from the hunt he and his lady had been the subject of, was quick to have his bow in hand. Three arrows were left in his quiver, and he caressed them briefly, before sending the grey-feathered darts to find their target. They all did. 

~

If trees, if flowers could weep, they did so now, remembering the night, while images were created for them by the lifeblood of the slain that had eventually reached the ground water they all were drinking. They all could see those three clearly in stories, pictures, in tales of lives now lost. For a moment they did not speak, but simply remembered.

~ 

The arrows were not fatal. The attacker, for whom the tide had turned did not even fall to his knees. He remained motionless for a moment and then brought his hand to one of the wounds. An expression of disbelief crossed his face before, without a warning, he attacked the two elves.

_~_

"Who was he?"

"The fourth son of the one who preserved the light of the Shining Trees. Did this one really think he could regain the stone the light was held in? Did he really think he was right?"

"Yes, he did. But he paid for it with a high cost."

_~_

The lovers froze, watching their death approach. Their hands met and intertwined, before the first stroke fell and the Noldorin blade cut a deep wound across the lady´s chest. She fell to the ground, and when her lover bowed over her, not caring for anything else, the bloodstained sword founds its way into his heart. 

Yet the attacker's  victory did not last long. A silver-haired youngling wearing his hair in one braid that fell down to his slim waist came from the gates of Menegroth, a large bow clutched to his heart, and a quiver full of arrows slung carelessly over his shoulder. His eyes were wild and frightened, but an unreadable expression played over his face when he perceived the scene before him. He raised his bow, and seconds later the bowstring sang its lament for the two slain elves, the arrows finding their mark swift and true. 

The other´s body came to rest beside the two lovers, and soon the fourth son of Fëanor met his fate, foretold long ago, but never believed. 

~

"Yes, he paid. He is dead now."

"As are the others, who defended it. This stone belongs to no one. I can see how it and its brethren were made. It was three elements mingled and kindled with golden and silver light: Air, earth and water – and this is where they will return in the end. Those jewels are made of the elements of the world, and what Quendi would be strong enough to keep the world in his grasp?"

"We need to tell them. They need to know or more blood will be shed ere the stones find their way home."

"We can not. They would not understand, for they refuse to listen to our council. We do not even need to try."

"Alas for the children. More blood will stain the lands, then. But it is true… they would not understand."

"Then let us wish them well, that some day they may see the truth."

* * *

Not far away, the four remaining sons of Fëanor and their followers looked up for a moment, thoughtful. A wind had come from the forest and some could have sworn that it brought a whisper of voices with it. But if this was indeed true, they did not understand…. while others would swear that it had only been the breeze.

THE END  


End file.
